


Spectre

by RiverFlynn7



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Angel Waverly Earp, F/F, One Shot, Wayhaught - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-18 16:13:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16122146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiverFlynn7/pseuds/RiverFlynn7
Summary: Nicole comes face-to-face with a spectre, a ghostly projection of Bulshar, asks some of the important questions, and finds herself in trouble. The Earp sisters arrive just in time to find her in the hands of the demon, and must act quickly to save the sole survivor of the Cult massacres. - One Shot





	Spectre

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a one shot I wanted to throw out there before the double episode finale tonight! No one beta'd this, so any/all mistakes are my own.
> 
> I can't wait to see what happens, despite the fact that I'm terrified to see what kind of cliffhanging trauma Emily Andras has in store for us.
> 
> So, read on, have fun, and I'll see y'all on the other side of tonight, with sanity still intact... hopefully.

Leaving my warm bed this morning proved difficult, Waverly curled tight into a cocoon of bedsheets and blankets next to me making it nearly impossible. Instead of wrapping my own sleep-warm body around hers and kissing her awake, only for us to fall back asleep together, I had left her with a gentle peck to her forehead and begrudgingly gotten showered and dressed for my shift.

The first time I arrived at the cop shop today, all was as it should be. Night shift was finishing their paperwork for the day, and morning shift was rotating in, picking up where the other left off. I had no concerns as I collected the paperwork piled high on my desk and got busy sifting through for the important reports while waiting for Nedley to arrive and begin whatever final training he intended to go through with me personally now that I’ve officially taken over the role of Sheriff.

Hours flew by quickly with how much I was learning, and I really enjoyed spending most of my day with Nedley. Since accepting the position with Purgatory Sheriff’s Department, he had quickly grown from boss to mentor to something loosely resembling a father-figure. His gruff exterior sometimes slipped to reveal the true bleeding heart of the man beneath, caring to the core. After realizing that he is the one who rescued me after I escaped the forest, I knew he would truly be family for the rest of my life.

Now, only about an hour before shift change, a call comes in over the dispatch line about a woman in distress, possibly disturbed, walking aimlessly through the snow-laden square at the heart of downtown… naked. Thinking it wise to allow a female officer handle the potentially delicate situation, Nedley excuses himself while I ride out to see that the woman is safe. After confirming that she is, in fact, on a cocktail of unprescribed pharmaceuticals, I quickly bundle her in a woolen blanket, for modesty and warmth. It takes nearly the rest of my last hour to get her admitted to the hospital for a potential stomach flush and further treatment. Finally, leaving her to the capable hands of medical professionals, I hop in the cruiser and head back to the station to call it a night.

When I walk through the doors of the Sheriff’s Department, I see no one at the front desk. No one is in the bullpen. No one is at their desks. Sheriff Nedley’s office is dark, and the BBD offices are eerily silent. I can sense an urgent tension reverberating through the vast emptiness of the station as it envelops me immediately, causing the hair on my arms to stand at attention. Something is wrong.

Making a quick sweep of the area, I note that nothing looks obviously out of place. No tables are turned over, no desks have been ransacked. Everything appears to have been left exactly as it was, mid-afternoon, as if everyone in the building stood up and walked out at once… or vanished.

The uneasy feeling in my stomach is bordering on nauseous, so I pause at my own desk, attempting to ground myself with the familiarity of the space before I allow panic to set in. Taking a few deep, calming inhales, I close my eyes and count backwards from ten in my head. Just as I reach ‘one’, I hear a rustling, quiet as a hitch of breath, and my eyes fly open, head swiveling to catch a glimpse of whatever may be present with me.

There, a hair’s breadth beyond my left shoulder, stands Bulshar.

I stumble backwards to put distance between myself and the demon before me, instinctively reaching for my gun. As soon as I draw my weapon and train it on him, I realize how pale he is. His body shimmers and hovers, a spectre rather than the man or demon himself. Eyeing me patiently, as if waiting for me to settle, he says nothing, but I can feel the room grow colder around us. The air grows denser, and a putrid smell assaults my nose, threatening me again with nauseousness.

The weapon in my hands will do me no good against a ghost, a projection, or whatever form he may be taking, so I lower the gun and slide it back into its holster. Finally gathering the clarity to think and the courage to speak, I straighten my stance, shoulders back, and ask with the authority of a police officer, “Why are you here?”

“For you.” His words are simple, yet they hold a weight that threatens to buckle my knees. I knew this would happen. Upon rediscovering my own past, learning of my escape, I realized soon after that surviving one of Bulshar’s massacres never meant freedom. It was only postponing the inevitable.

I give him no satisfaction of a reaction, schooling my features to seem unaffected. Even as a mere image of his true self, I see the steel glint in his eye at my complacency, but I hold my gaze firm. “Where is everyone else?”

“I have sent them away.”

“Away? Away to where?” I ask, unable to keep the tinge of fear for my fellow officers from coloring my voice.

“They are inconsequential... for now.”

Trying not to dwell on what his statement means, on the foreboding nature of his tone, I keep his focus here. “What do you want from me?

“What is owed.”

A feeling of impatience and defiance rises in me, unbidden, and my voice comes harshly. “I’m not really big on riddles, and I’ve met my quota for cryptic bullshit today, so if you don’t mind getting to the damn point…?”

The spectre tilts his head menacingly in my direction, but doesn’t move nearer. His fists clench at his side, a clear sign of his own anger rising. When he speaks, however, the tone remains unchanged, deep and direct. “You owe me a body. You owe me a soul. The Garden is nearly ready to sow. You are the final piece to the puzzle. My transcendence remains incomplete until all of my sacrifices are dead, and you…” He points a translucent finger in my direction, “...have been marked.”

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s going to work for me…” I say, moving to side-step around the end of my desk to put the obstacle between the incorporeal figure and myself.

Before I can react, the ghastly Bulshar stands before me, mere inches away, and the hand which was aimed toward me plunges into my chest. There is no gaping hole, no entrance wound to indicate that anything about me has physically changed, but I am hit with a rush of cold, like a shard of ice has wedged itself into my chest. A second later, my heart clenches and the breath is wrenched from my lungs as the demon continues. “You will not survive. You will not escape again!”

I want to scream, but there is no oxygen, nothing left in me to produce a sound, so my mouth hangs open in silence, neck straining against the shout that won’t come out. I want to double over in pain, but I am held in place, muscles frozen stiff and unwilling to move. Feeling my pulse begin to slow, suddenly my mind goes quiet. The edges of my vision begin to go dark, but I hear a familiar voice, muted, as if underwater.

“Not so fast, BulsharT. Let go of my Haught.” A shot goes off, sound filling the space inside the bullpen, but the bullet passes through the demon’s incorporeal form and buries itself deep into the wall directly across from where Wynonna still has Peacemaker trained firmly on Bulshar.

“What the f..” Wynonna begins, lifting the gun to examine it, but another voice cuts her off as the spectre’s attention remains focused on me.

“Nicole!”

At the distant sound of Waverly calling my name, I feel my head lift in her direction. Faintly, I see her form in the doorway moving toward me, but my sight is all but gone now. I want to call out, tell her to run, to get somewhere safe, tell her I love her, tell her that Bulshar determined my fate years ago, but my body slumps heavier against the ghostly hand buried within my chest.

“Ok, so we’ll do this your way.” Wynonna says, making quick strides toward the demon, ready to lay fists into him while at least one of his hands is preoccupied with me.

As the Earp heir arrives, arm already reared back to throw a punch, she is swiftly tossed aside, flying up and through the glass pane of the Sheriff’s office window. Somewhere in the back of my mind, beneath the concern I feel for my friend, I note that I’ve only just taken over the office, and it is already going to be destroyed.

In the time it takes for Wynonna to crash into a heap inside the small office, Waverly is suddenly next to Bulshar, having followed directly on her sister’s heels, only to be revealed when the elder Earp is flung out of the way. In a move that mimics the ghastly figure’s own, she drives her hand into the center of its chest, clenching her fist to bare the ring of her father, the ring of an angel.

As soon as the ring, along with Waverly’s hand, is buried within the demon ghost’s torso, a light begins to emanate from the solid black gem. It is an eerie light, but it grows with every second. Bulshar flickers and ripples; his own state becoming a fractured visage of distorted light. His free hand comes up to attempt grabbing Waverly’s wrist, but his hand travels through her, eyes going wide.

The light from the ring continues to grow brighter, near blinding, and the ghast begins to wail, dropping Nicole to the floor to free its other hand. He scrambles, clawing at Waverly’s arm and curling around it harmlessly like smoke. In my state of near blackout, I hear Waverly’s words to the spectre as it screeches in her grasp.

“You will not win this. We will find you, and we will defeat you, because good always wins… Nicole is everything good in this world, and YOU… CAN’T… HAVE HER!”

Waverly’s voice rises with a surge of effort and emotion, and upon hearing her declaration, her father’s ring flashes with the white-hot brightness of the unfiltered sun, breaking apart any remaining vision of the specter, only to leave the room in total darkness a moment later.

“Nicole…” my lover’s voice calls to me as if through water, and everything in me pushes, swimming toward the surface. “Baby, look at me. Nicole... please.” her voice pleads.

There’s a hand on my cheek, a hand behind my head, and I can feel the unforgiving hardness of linoleum floor tiles against my lower back and hips. Sensing a warmth on either side, a presence at each arm, I realize the Earp sisters cradle my head and shoulders.

“C’mon Haught,” Wynonna’s voice calls, and a sharp smack of fingers across my cheek is followed by a quick reprimand from her sister, but it seems to work.

My eyes crack open slightly, the light making them sensitive, and I realize that the darkness was not a result of Bulshar’s ghostly figure leaving, but my own plummet into unconsciousness. Tears pool in my eyes against the brightness, and I take my time letting them adjust. When they focus, I take pause. There is only one sight that would leave me blindly guessing whether I am alive or in Heaven, and that is the face of Waverly Earp. She hovers above me, haloed by the fluorescent lights of the station behind a cascade of honey-brown waves, eyes welled with tears yet to fall, and I feel a warmth replace the shard of ice that resided in my chest just moments ago.

“Waves…” I croak, throat still tight from a silent scream at the hands of Bulshar, and try to push myself up, quick to begin scanning Waverly’s body for any signs of harm, her face for an ounce of distress.

“Shhh. I’m right here. You’re okay, baby. We’re all okay,” she coos, thumb brushing my cheek as the first tear breaks away and rolls silently down her own.

“Speak for yourself…” I hear Wynonna grumble and then groan as she stands, dusting the shattered glass and wooden splinters of the Sheriff’s office window from her jacket before offering a hand to help me up.

As I find her grasp, Waverly leans in, hurriedly pressing her lips to mine, needing the contact to ground us both before taking me by the crook of my other elbow to help lift me. Each sister drapes one of my arms over their shoulders, and we slowly make our way back to the safety of the Homestead.

Sitting on the edge of Waverly’s bed after she has finally ensured Wynonna’s own health, we are alone. She works hurriedly at the buttons of my uniform shirt, not out of heat or desire, but out of the unchecked need to see me, to see that I am intact, all the flesh and bone as it should be, unscathed. I don’t think she realizes that she is holding her breath, but I can see the strain of it in her features.

As the last button slides free, Waverly pushes the shirt open and back off my shoulders until it gathers around my elbows, leaving me in only a sports bra. Light fingertips brush along my collarbone, drifting across the smooth expanse of my chest before resting her palm flat over where my heart beats steadily, and she exhales all the breath she’s held onto in a sigh. Her eyes swell and spill over with relieved tears.

“Waverly…” I say, meeting her eyes as I slide my hand from her elbow up to her own to lace our fingers together against my chest. “I’m alright.”

At these two softly spoken words, she clings to me, knees on either side of my hips, arms coiling tightly around my shoulders, and I wrap my arms around her waist. We pull our bodies flush together, no space left between us. I know she needs to feel for herself that I am solid, that I am whole. My face is pressed into her neck, and I trail reassuring kisses along the underside of her jaw.

“I thought this was it,” she mumbles as her tears falling into my hair, and I know what she means. After everything we’ve been through, every day can feel like the one that the sky will inevitably crash in around us, but I want her to see that I am here, that I will always be here. I want her to know that I am strong. I need her to know that I will not let a single one of our infinite close call, near-death, bad days change us. Together, we can face down the world, and everything in it. Instead of waiting around for what we believe is unavoidable, the loss we feel is looming, I need her to live. So we will be alive together.

Placing a kiss to her throat, lips pressed over her tripping pulse, I whisper as if directly into her very bloodstream, “I will never leave you.”

Waverly pulls away, cradling my face in both hands, and looks into my face. The depth of her understanding rivals the intensity of her uncertainty as her eyes search mine, drinking in the promise I have made and searching for any hint of doubt. I know before she kisses me that she finds none, and her lips on mine silence the world around us. Lost in her touch, the light between us grows and dissipates the darkness which follows, always at our heels. Bodies moving together as one, we exorcise that which haunts us, the very spectre of fear, gone.


End file.
